Retrograde
by Alhendra
Summary: Arthur loses himself.


**Retrograde**

**Fandom:** Inception

**Genre:** Angst/Romance

**Pairings:** Arthur/Eames

**Rating:** Probably T, rating as M to be safe.

**Word Count:** 8445.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**Notes:** First finished Inception fic – reviews are loved, constructive criticism welcome.

**Summary:** Arthur loses himself.

* * *

He cannot remember how he got here.

The thought bothers him, vaguely, (_a dream_) and he's not sure why.

A needle pierces his skin (_yes, yes_), and the world blinds him with colour, sound and motion. Time becomes meaningless, and he floats on a sea of soft light (_it's okay, it's all okay_). A man's face comes into view and it's familiar, somehow, but the thought slides away, slipping through his fingers before he can grasp it. The man is too close, so he cups the stubbled cheek, the expected words spilling out of his mouth, and for a brief moment there's a flash of _wrongness_ and he doesn't know why. This is the natural progression of things. The man's face darkens (_not good enough?_) but then he leads him away, and he allows his surroundings to blur into meaningless images as so often, blessedly happens.

* * *

He cannot remember how he got here (_a dream, just a dream_).

The ceiling is a dirty off-white, the stink of cigarette smoke taunts him, and the bed beneath him is soft luxury after the ground and _this_ is very familiar now. He turns his head, reaches for the money on the bedside drawer (_no, not again, the money, the money_) but his fingers scrabble uselessly on the smooth wood because there is none.

He turns his head and the man is there, silent in the doorway, and a flash of anger chases the despair away. "The money," he says roughly, and he's off the bed and on his feet, recognizing the look in the man's eyes (_I_ need _it_) but the world's too dizzy, too blurry, and before he knows it he's on the bed again, two strong hands holding him down and the feeble protest he can muster barely passes as a struggle to break free.

"Sleep," a voice commands and he cannot help but obey despite his misgivings (_no, the money_). He thinks vaguely that perhaps they still have to do it and that then he _will_ get paid.

He sleeps.

* * *

He cannot remember how he got here (_a dream? _), but he's more lucid this time.

The man's still there, and he doesn't know his name yet (_I do_) but the brief flicker of _something_ vanishes before he can keep hold of it (_I don't_).

There's a glass of water instead of the money and he drinks it thirstily, gulping it down so fast that some spills down his chest, but the water is cool and _clean_ and it just might be the best thing he's ever tasted.

The man chuckles but there's no humour in his voice when he asks "Better?" He doesn't know the answer to that question so he repeats himself. "The money," he says, and watches the man's face flicker again.

"Later," is the man's curt response, and his eyes narrow and his fingers tighten around the thin sheets underneath him. Later means never.

"That wasn't the deal," he says, managing coherency this time, and pushes himself up, the world lurching gently.

"It wasn't, but we haven't done anything yet," the man says lightly. He pauses to consider (_we haven't?_). He cannot remember, but he rarely can (_better this way_). With a great effort he considers himself and his surroundings despite the sluggishness swimming in his brain - he's not in pain, not more so than usual, and the bed is _clean_, rumpled up but clean, not messy (_we haven't_).

"Oh," he says, (_then let's do it_) and his face stretches into his welcoming grin, beckoning the man over (_no, not when I'm sober_) but the man doesn't move (_I have to, we have to_).

"Not going to happen, darling." And the world freezes in its tracks (_no, no, _no) and without knowing why he's snapping "Don't call me that," because it feels so (_right_) wrong and he doesn't even know _why_.

And the man smiles at him, a smile with too many teeth, and he wants to get out of here. A feeling of dread (_I shouldn't be here_) that he cannot explain (_who are you? _) is coiling in his gut. "Are you a cop?" he asks, but the man shakes his head and somehow it doesn't make him feel better.

"No, Arthur, I'm not." (_who's Arthur?_) rushes through his mind, and then its (_I'm Arthur, no I'm not, I'm not, I'm not_) and the mercurial feeling is mercifully buried inside before it can spill out, hot and corrosive.

"I'm Percy," he says, matter-of-factly, (_Arthur, Percy, David, Thomas, no, just Percy_) and the man chuckles again.

"Of course you are," he murmurs (_of course I am_), "Only you would choose that name." There's a pause, and then the man asks, somewhat curiously. "Do you remember me?"

(_Yes, but no, no, no, I don't remember, I _don't) and he turns his head, shying from the memories. "I don't know you."

The man murmurs something Arthur – no, _Percy_ – doesn't catch and Percy gets up this time (_steady_). "I have to go," (_the money, _fuck _the money, this is wrong_) but the man catches his wrist and it makes him pause, his wrist unnaturally small in the man's larger hand.

"Not so fast."

Percy stares down, frustrated, knowing he will be unable to pull away. This makes no sense, because they're of a height and the man doesn't look _particularly_ strong, but somehow, instinctively, he knows he cannot win a physical confrontation in the state he's in, not with this man.

"You can't keep me here," he says (_yes you can, I could never run from _you) and he doesn't know where the thought comes from (_it's a dream_).

The man smiles sadly at him. "I couldn't before, but I will this time." (_There was no other time, there wasn't, there _wasn't) and he jerks his wrist out of the man's grasp (_I _don't _know his name_) and rushes towards the door, but a pair of arms are around him before he can take more than two steps, and it feels (_so wrong, so wrong, so _right) and he cannot move.

"You can't keep me here, they'll be after me and they'll hurt you!" he says savagely, and the threat is all too real, but for some reason instead of satisfaction he feels only pain at the thought (_they can't hurt _him) and he doesn't know why. It makes him pause, sag in the man's arms even as he is led unwillingly back to the bed.

"Don't worry, I can handle them." The man places him on the bed and he's so tender (_I don't want this_) that it twists his heart and only then does he realize that he's covered in (_clean_) bandages and there's even _band-aid_ on his cuts. He goes silent (_this is wrong_) and he looks up at the man with huge eyes, before turning his head away, shying from the memory of a name he refuses to remember (_Eames_).

* * *

He cannot remember how he got here (_it's a dream_) but there are crisp, white linens and efficient, bustling nurses and serious doctors and the walls are white and plain and the place is perfectly orderly so it's (_right_) wrong. What's worse is (_hate it, hate it_) they don't give him what he _needs _(_it's a nightmare_).

They give him the wrong stuff, it doesn't help much, and he shakes and he shivers and he yells and screams and beats on the metal door until his hands are bruised and his throat is raw, but no one comes. The man is (_always_) there, he knows, right behind his door, but he doesn't talk to him, not when he's like this, only when he's too exhausted and can barely move anymore (_if only I had a gun_). Then he's next to him, holding his hand, or smoothing his hair away from his forehead, or _washing_ him.

He's no good at holding the rage down, not when they won't _give_ it to him, but he tries, he tries so hard, until one day the man walks in and he explodes, and he's skinny and weak but the rage comes from deep inside, gives him strength he never knew he had. And his hands are around the man's throat and the man is shoved against the wall and he's snarling in his face, and his fingers are tightening around his neck, a vicious satisfaction in him, but the man doesn't make a sound (_why don't you scream?_), doesn't even try, and without knowing why his fingers cannot do it, cannot (_why?_) crush the life out of this man (_who are you?_) and they go limp, and the man (_save me_, please) pulls him into an embrace.

This he can understand, this is all too familiar and he feels almost relief as he wraps his arms around him, and the man makes a small noise (_yes_) and Arthur – no, _Percy_ (_never Arthur, never again_) – presses his lips against the neck that smells so (_un_) familiar (_sex, then money, then freedom, then the_ drugs) but before he can do anything more the man has shoved him roughly away (_why?_) and he cannot read the expression in his (_gray_) eyes and the man is gone, leaving him alone once again, alone to the screaming and the trembling and the cursing.

In one of his quieter moments they bring someone to cut his hair, and he stays quiet, bandaged hands motionless in his lap, letting the feel of scissors playing through his hair soothe him, even as five people watch him warily (_I'll be good this time_). The doctor is talking to the man, using words like _amnesia_ and _jogging his memory_ and _familiarity_ and other words that he lets wash over him, too lethargic to care.

When he sees himself in the mirror, hair short and combed back and clean (_Arthur_) he smashes the mirror to pieces (_Arthur, Arthur, _Arthur) and the shards slice his hands and it takes all five to restrain him kicking and screaming (_not Arthur, _never again _Arthur_). He only stops when they sedate him, and he falls into a dazed half-slumber with the feeling of a soft warm hand stroking his cheek and squeezing his hand gently, murmuring unintelligible words to him softly.

The man remains steadfast by his side, and he's not sure why, (_please don't go_) he doesn't want him to stay.

"Do you remember my name?" he asks (_Eames_), and Arthur shakes his head, and the man shrugs and nods. He calls him Arthur (_but I'm Percy_), and darling, and many other things, and Arthur's very careful not to call him Eames, until, of course, the day he's not.

And the man(_Eames_)'s eyes flicker with an odd sort of light, and he takes his hands and whispers a litany to them, and Arthur's (_not listening_) but it's _Arthur, darling I missed you so, Arthur, missed you_ so, and he shies away because feelings are stirring and feelings bring back memories, memories he doesn't _want_, memories he cannot handle, memories that (_never happened_).

* * *

He cannot remember how he got here (_it's a dream_) but he's been here for a lifetime.

When Eames (_the man_) brings over a metal suitcase, he's out of the bed and with his back pressed to the walls of his cell before he can think (_I know that_) why. Eames places it on the bed and waits, and it takes Arthur (_Percy_) two silent minutes of agonized suppression (_no, I don't know that, I_ don't) before he's on the bed and the needle's in his shaking wrist and he's pressing the button viciously, the dose of somnacin rushing through his veins like an old memory (_an old friend_).

He builds like his life depends on it, roads and hotels, cathedrals, shops, skyscrapers, warehouses, parks, entire cities, coastlines, creations rising from oblivion in the blink of an eye only be to be dissolved in a heartbeat and replaced anew with something completely different. And in the midst of it all is Eames, watching his creations, watching _him_, and he's armed and ready to protect him, but it's impossible to protect one man from all the jumpy projections who are whipped into a frenzy by the savage creation and destruction Arthur is propagating almost mindlessly.

They are both killed – painfully – and Arthur's eyes snap open. "Again," is all he says, and before Eames can do more than glimpse the feverish look in his dark eyes he's pressed the button once more.

They are killed exactly five times, the projections turning vicious within minutes, because even the buildings that are not demolished in seconds are unnatural, skewed and twisted structures that are only held up by blatantly ignoring the laws of physics. The sky is bleached gray and there is barely colour anywhere, only in the scarf Eames is wearing and in the warm blood that spills every time they die.

The fifth time Eames is forced to watch Arthur's guts spill onto the floor he reaches over before Arthur can press the button again, and Arthur snarls at him viciously before his hand goes limp, his heart beating seventeen to the dozen, the needle still in his arm (_an old, old friend_).

It becomes a ritual – Eames brings the device when Arthur behaves, when he takes the doses of the weaning drugs the nurses give him, when he doesn't attempt yet another escape from the rehabilitation facility. Slowly the desperation of needing to build wears off, and Arthur even creates places that _look_ real, if desolate and ruined.

Clarity is returning fast, with the drugs being washed out of his system, his doses decreasing, the doctors and nurses pleased with his progress. But there's still a blank wall where his memories are, an insurmountable barrier that he dare not scale, dare not challenge for fear of what lies behind.

But there is nothing as resilient, as parasitic as an idea, and when it catches hold of Arthur, he is unable to escape it. Instead, he broods over it for a very long time. A very, very long time.

Eames has gotten into the habit of bringing a newspaper with him every day. At first Arthur barely glances at it (_don't care_), barely glances at Eames (_hate you_). But he gets better, he improves, and they talk sometimes, when he's not shaking or trembling or wallowing in hate and misery. Eames does most of the talking, and Arthur sometimes listens, catches words and names that bring the briefest of flickers of memories. Like extraction (_stealing secrets by dream sharing_), or dice (_my totem_) even if he has no idea what a totem (_anchor to reality_) is. And he catches sight of a glaring newspaper headline that mentions Fischer (_heir to a multi-billionare business that dissolved his father's empire_) and that last name frightens him enough that he refuses to talk to Eames for a week.

* * *

He cannot remember how long he's been thinking it over, but the fear spurs him onwards. He's been _very_ good recently, mostly paralyzed by fear, clarity bringing with it a greater anxiety, a dry mouth, a throbbing head. There are secrets, secrets buried deep inside him, and he cannot resist anymore. He's not the extractor (_just the Point Man_) - he doesn't know what extraction _is_. (_But I _do.)

He asks Eames for privacy, and he's been so good, so normal that Eames agrees, gives him ten minutes on his own in the dream-world, and Arthur, who had been expecting (_hoping for_) a refusal, is unable to back out.

It is a bank, a high security edifice that would have made most people take a look and walk away, an impregnable fortress that would give pause to the most experienced extractor. But Arthur forces himself inside, forced himself to the counter – there is no need for him to break in.

This is his own mind he is extracting information from.

There are signs and forms, and signatures and counterforms that he has to fill in and sign, and then he is led down twisted, interminable corridors. Dimly he is aware that his own projections are protecting him from his own memories, inventing delays to give him time to change his mind, but he has come too far to back out now. And his subconscious seems to understand the futility, because suddenly he is _there_, in front of the safe that holds his secrets hidden safely within.

He finds that he is trembling as bad as when the withdrawal symptoms kick in, only worse because he could have chosen to walk away from this, but he cannot now, not anymore. And there is no time, no time left, because Eames has promised him only ten minutes and he's wasted most of his time already, and the forger (_forger? _) will be following him inside soon.

He has to move, he cannot stop to _think_ and his fingers move, unwillingly, dread seeping into every shaking limb from the deepest part of his soul (_don't do this, _please, _not again, not again, not _Arthur) but the safe clicks open at a brush of his fingers and the door swings open and suddenly the memories are _there_, all around him, playing all together in simultaneous clips that flood into him with resounding finality.

Bringing pain and desolation in their wake.

Ariadne. Fresh faced and so _new_, eyes lit up with the excitement of dream sharing, and the endless realm of possibilities suddenly open to her. _What is a totem? _she asks, and he shows her (_my die_).

Nash. Huddling in the corner of a helicopter, bruised and in pain, his eyes pleading _I only did it to save myself_ (_and we're your sacrificial lambs_).

His father. Placing a PASIV device in front of him, creases in his forehead but pride in his eyes. _Fine, a truce, of sorts_ (_the beginning_).

His mother. Straightening his tie, brimming with pride and love. _My angel _(_my support_).

Yusuf. The man looking at him defensively. _I trusted him _(_...who? _)

Eames. Confident, explaining his ideas to the team, with that goddamn accent that tended to do funny things to Arthur's stomach. _Precisely. It's the only way it'll stick. It has to seem self-generated_. (_Eames? I am impressed. _)

Fischer. The man nodding, eyes determined, and then being eased unconscious back onto the bed (_easier than we thought_).

Mal. The beautiful woman laughing, patting Arthur's cheek. _Perhaps you should_ really _think about why he's always teasing _you _twice as much as anyone else _(_because he thinks I'm _boring, _Mal_).

And.

Saito (_oh God_). Saito, looking at them, putting down his phone. _It seemed…neater _(_it cannot possibly go wrong_).

And of course.

Cobb (_no, no, _please _no_). Cobb, shoving his finger into Arthur's face _This was your job, goddamnit, this was _your _responsibility, you were meant to check Fischer's background thoroughly, we are _not _prepared for this kind of violence _(_it's my fault it's my fault it's _my fault).

This is a dream, but Saito and Cobb's loss in Limbo is real, real, it is all too real.

And he isn't Percy, he is _Arthur_, goddamned Arthur who hadn't done his job well enough and caused both men to lose their _minds_.

This is a dream, but it doesn't matter, Arthur can never escape from reality for as long as he lives.

The memories play around him, but Arthur is kneeling on the ground, clutching his head, desperately trying to drown everything out. And running through every single memory, like gold thread stitching a tapestry together, is Eames.

Eames, with his cocky, self assured smirk; Eames, who doesn't know the word _specificity _but came up with almost the entire Fischer inception plan on his own; Eames, who makes his stomach clench with anticipation every time he glances his way; Eames, who gives him nervous butterflies every time he's in the vicinity.

Eames, who has made Arthur remember that Cobb and Saito never made it back from Limbo, that it is his fault that there are five children out there orphaned by his own _negligence_.

Eames, who has forced him back into Arthur's skin.

As the knowledge settles with an inevitable finality back into his mind once more, branded so strongly, so painfully, that he's not sure how he could ever have forgotten it in the first place, Eames appears behind him.

Calling out joyfully, "_Arthur_!"

Instantaneously Arthur's self loathing whips outwards at the sound of _happiness_, the feeling inside his belly crystallizing into an explosive miasma of pure hate directed at the source of that delight that clashes so starkly with Arthur's own fountain of despair.

"Cobb," Eames says, and whatever he needs to say must be important, because he ignores the fact that Arthur's on his knees in the middle of a bank - no, in the middle of a grey wasteland, because the bank has vanished into desolation, a single red die on the ground before him. Eames doesn't stop to think and wonder. "Cobb," he repeats, smiling widely, but Arthur is not kneeling any longer, he is suddenly on his feet, turning to face the forger so fast he almost gets whiplash.

"Don't you fucking _dare_." It's no more than a whisper, but Eames freezes instantly into place, eyes widening as he realises that something is terribly, horribly, _wrong_.

Arthur takes a step forward, and Eames would retreat if he could, but something - a twisted, blackened tree that wasn't there second ago - is blocking his way, wrapping rough gnarled branches around him, rooting him into place.

"Fuck you, Eames," he says, and Arthur is back, clipped, cold, calculating, and naked hatred, the _loathing _in his eyes shocks the forger into utter stillness. "You and your fucking inability to stay out of things which are _not your business_."

Eames opens his mouth to say something, but he seems at a loss for words, and Arthur gives him no time to think it over. "Enjoyed yourself?" he asks coldly, and without realising it he's back in one of his suits, the clothing his armor, protection for his soul. "Seeing me like this? Trying your damnedest to find out what makes me tick, like one of your marks, like one of your _puzzles_?"

"Arthur," Eames tries, but something twists around his neck and tightens, keeping him in place, silencing his tongue.

"What was the point, _Eames_? Having a laugh? Being the good samaritan? Enjoying seeing me on my knees? Or were you waiting for me to remember all this time so you can _rub it into my face_?" and this time Arthur's shouting, and the ground is quaking because the pain is too much, and he cannot handle this abject betrayal on top of everything else.

There is silent horror in Eames' eyes, but Arthur turns away, feeling _sick_, unable to look at the forger because the man knows every dirty little secret about him now, and he _knows _he's shameful, and he cannot bear the thought of seeing that look reflected in Eames' eyes. Instead, he takes a steadying breath, and lifts the gun to his temple.

"Goodbye, Eames," he says, and pulls the trigger.

Arthur is back, and he might have no imagination, but he has no lack of plans.

Arthur tears the needle away from his wrist as soon as his eyes are open, flinging himself out of the chair and through the door. He pauses only to grab the small handgun from where it is hidden in Eames' clothes, the same place he always hides it, the same place he's always hidden it. Arthur has barely minutes before the dream collapses around Eames and the man wakes up, but he makes good use of it.

The doctors and nurses have good security, but they never expected their patient - who was improving so well - to get such a good opportunity. He is Arthur, and he doesn't need guns, his limbs are enough of a weapon, even as skinny and out of practice as he is, but luckily for the sake of the guards he _does _have the gun and they aren't fool enough to attempt to manhandle him into submission.

He is out of a non reinforced window in the nurse's office in minutes - an oversight to place bars everywhere but there - smashing through the glass and running as if his life depends on it, unable to even feel the pain from the shards that rain indiscriminately around him.

Eames is too late. He is fast, but Arthur is faster, and this Arthur isn't entirely the predictable Arthur he's always known. Always loved.

The same man who's apparently always hated him as strongly as Eames has loved him.

He searches in vain, and is forced to accept before long that Arthur has vanished for good.

The forger is on the next flight out to Mombasa, finally leaving the memories of Arthur behind just as surely as Arthur had left his on the day he walked out of the hospital, leaving Cobb and Saito on a hospital bed, both unconscious, both lost.

* * *

Eames cannot remember how he got here, but he knows it's not a dream. He cannot dream anymore, not without the device, and he _knows _that only reality can be so full of shit. It's just another day in another seedy casino, with whiskey which tastes like water (but only after the tenth glass), with him still able to play because the amount they had been paid for the Fischer job (despite Saito's comatose accident, the job had been successfully completed) was really decadent.

It should have been perfect, it was no more than he'd ever wanted in life, to be rich and have no responsibilities, nothing to do except what he _felt_ like, but that was before goddamned Arthur had left an unusually large gap where his heart should have been that all the gambling, drinking and wenching he was doing was still unable to fill.

It is almost a week after Arthur had, once again, run out of his life that he finally picks up Ariadne's call. The girl has been calling almost daily and he had hoped she would give up, but evidently she never would. He remembers her determined expression all too well, and only picks up because he _knows_ that if he doesn't he will turn around one day and find her Mombasa, where she would fling his own whiskey into his face and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, bailing out on her like that.

He doesn't feel comfortable at the thought of those dark, _knowing_ eyes searching his, because even the glazed look his own eyes tended to have nowadays (_too much alcohol, too much _nothingness) would give away too much.

So he picks up.

He holds the phone away from his ear until she has gotten her fury at being so blatantly ignored out of her system and then forces his face into a smile. "Missed you too, darling," he says casually, hoping the truth of smiling while on the phone will work to convey his obvious enjoying-the-world attitude.

It doesn't work. Typical old wives' tales. Instead she goes quiet, and when she speaks it's in a soft, almost hesitant voice, very unlike Ariadne. "Eames, what _happened_?"

"Nothing happened, love, why would you think that?" he says, and the forced joviality is still there, lying on the surface like cream over milk gone sour, too thick, too _fake_.

"Eames, _please_," and Eames cannot take it anymore, and the smile falls away as if it's never been, and he hunches over, cradling his drink like a lifeline, because Arthur's back but he's _gone _and Arthur _hates _him and it's always been the case and he doesn't know why he ever expected anything else.

He doesn't know why it hurts so goddamn _much_.

So he tells her. He tells her that Arthur finally _remembered _and Arthur ran away. He doesn't tell her that Arthur could be lying in a ditch somewhere, dead, or as high as a kite, being fucked into a moth eaten mattress by some stranger who might leave a few bills on the nightstand for him to buy more drugs. He tells her he doesn't know where Arthur is and he doesn't _care _anymore. He doesn't tell her his heart was smashed along with the window that Arthur jumped out of to freedom, and he's finally giving him up for good.

"Eames…" Ariadne says, but he knows from her voice that she's as suddenly lost as he is, and he hangs up on her before she can try to console him, because the only thing that can do that is more alcohol and perhaps a beautiful blond with blue eyes so he cannot mistake her for a tall handsome Point man with dark eyes and stiff demeanor, but (_who am I kidding? _) nothing can really help.

He doesn't pick up when she calls him back a second later, and after the fifth call, his cell phone stops ringing.

Yusuf calls him later on, but he ignores it, buried inside the blonde he managed to find, even if she's entirely too old and entirely too ugly for him, but she's (_not Arthur_) blond and that had been his admittedly unambitious goal. He groans and his fingers clench on the dirty sheets even as she asks him if he's gonna answer the bloody phone or turn it off because it's killing the mood (_there never was a mood, you dirty fucking whore, get the hell out of here_).

He picks up when Cobb calls, owing the man that much, and the hole in his chest doesn't mend, not exactly, but it does make the day less of a shithole to hear the man talk, to know that he's adjusting to this reality (or the dream – he's not sure Cobb is entirely convinced this is real yet), to know that Saito is improving, with therapy, finally out of his coma too.

He decides he can leave Mombasa long enough to pay Cobb a visit, maybe seeing him with his children will put things into perspective, remind him that there's still happiness in the world, maybe he can finally move on. He's still at the hospital, which Saito's company is generously funding with a tiny portion of all the extra money they're making after the Fischer corporation was dissolved.

He walks in there and it's a weight off his shoulders to see the man back to normal – no, not normal, because normal Cobb was tense and angry, nerves wound so tightly he was like a spring waiting to snap. This was a _relaxed _Cobb, smiling and laughing, almost as carefree as when Mal had still been alive, his children running around the room and quickly getting to know 'Uncle Eames' before Ariadne occupies their attention so he can talk with their father. And if there's a brief glimmer of doubt in Cobb's eyes sometimes, when he looks at his friends or his children, when Eames can see him wonder if this is reality or just another dream - well, he thinks the man is justified in having doubts. He can only trust that he won't pull a Mal for the sake of his children, on the off-chance that this _could _be real.

He sees Saito briefly, too, and the man is not very talkative, but then he never was, and Eames had never really gotten to know him anyway.

And he knows they _know_, because not one of them mentions Arthur while he's there, not Cobb, the extractor to Arthur's Point man, not Yusuf, whom he considers a friend, and not Ariadne, who's entirely too nosy for her own good and simply loves to interfere to satisfy her curiosity. Even she's silent, and he knows they've talked about him behind his back, about him and Arthur, but all he feels is a tired sort of relief that he doesn't have to smile when the man's name is mentioned, because he's good at deflecting and hiding behind masks but it doesn't mean he has to like it.

* * *

Eames can remember how he got here, but suddenly he's not sure this is reality, because he walks out of the hospital and Arthur is _there_, looking so lost, _again_, his face so full of emotions that Eames can't even begin to decipher them, even though knowing people inside out is his _job_.

He thinks he's got reason to stop and stare, because Arthur's not trying to kill him, and he'd never thought he'd see the man again – not unless the man was pointing a gun at his head. And Arthur doesn't look angry, he has no loathing in his eyes, and Eames knows he _should_, and neither of them seem to know what to say.

Eames finds himself wondering, rather detached, if he should just ignore him and walk away. After the moments stretch seemingly endlessly, he decides on doing just that when Arthur finally speaks up.

"I heard…they said…" the man licks his lips, and the forger settles into his best poker face, the one that gave away absolutely nothing at all. "I heard Cobb's…awake."

"He is," Eames acknowledges, and suddenly exhaustion floods him. _Perhaps you should have listened instead of running away_, he thinks, but what's the point? It's all far too late. They've crossed a line beyond which it is impossible to return. "He's awake, room 103," the forger says, jerking his head in the direction of the hospital entrance behind him, and then he's sidestepping past Arthur who's looking at the entrance with wide eyes as if not entirely sure of whether to enter or to bolt, a horrible, uncharacteristic vulnerability in his eyes.

Eames is beyond caring. Arthur's a grown man, he can obviously take care of himself, and once he plucks the courage to make himself enter the hospital and is reunited with Cobb, he will be back to normal within minutes. He will be the point man to Cobb's extractor (who will not be able to resist staying out of the business for too long) and Ariadne's architect (because she'll be damned before she lets them take on any job without her now).

He will never be the point man to Eames' forger, because he is now officially out of Arthur's life, whatever it takes to get there.

"Eames, wait." Eames considers ignoring him, but he knows that this will simply get Arthur to follow him, to delay his meeting with Cobb, which Arthur wants so badly but is still terrified of. So the forger stops, turning his head slightly to listen, without actually looking at the other man.

"Yeah?"

"I'm…sorry about what I said…did…back then," Arthur says haltingly, and Eames can tell he is struggling, knows without looking that Arthur is finding it hard to articulate his apology, because Arthur wants to pretend that he never ended up on the streets, was never taken to the rehab facility, never lashed out at Eames like that. "I wasn't…I shouldn't have…"

"It's fine," Eames says, (_it isn't_) but it hardly matters anymore. This is absolutely pointless, and the empty ache in his chest is only growing with Arthur's proximity and he needs to get away before something breaks even further. If that's even possible. But he doesn't want to find out. "Just go talk to Cobb, he's waiting for you."

He can imagine the nod, the jerk of Arthur's head as he turns to do as ordered. "We'll talk afterwards," the man says, and Eames can feel him wait for the reply.

"Of course," he says, forcing a smile to his lips, and it's only then that he hears Arthur move. He glances back to watch the point man force himself into the hospital, his stiff posture indicative of just how much effort it was taking to not run away. The forger waits until the doors slide shut behind Arthur before he turns and walks away.

He's on the next flight without even bothering to check where the plane is headed.

He's always been a good liar.

* * *

Arthur cannot remember everything of what happened after Eames picked him up in his drug-addled state off the streets, (he doesn't even know how he managed to find him in the first place) he remembers only bits and pieces of his stay at the rehab centre, but he remembers all too vividly what he said to Eames when the man had entered his dream to tell him, eyes shining and smiling widely, that _Cobb had finally woken up_. When he had regained his memories and lost his shit so badly that Eames had turned into a detached, cold stranger when they met in front of the hospital.

And when the joy and relief of being reunited with Cobb and Ariadne and Yusuf – and yes, Saito too, he had felt almost as bad over Saito as over Cobb – relaxed into more manageable levels, the guilt crept in. Slowly, at first, snaking down his spine even as he watched the two little kids cuddle their father lovingly, and then flooding through him as Ariadne exclaimed what a _shame _it was that Arthur had just missed Eames by a few minutes.

He had thought they'd all know, by now, what state Eames had found him in, but while they act as if he's a skittish colt rather than the reserved point man they're used to, Arthur just _knows _that his secrets, such as they are, have remained safe with Eames, buried as deep inside his mind as the memories of Cobb and Saito had been in his. Guilt slithers even more deeply through him, leaving indelible tracks in his mind, but he consoles himself with the thought that right after he can tear himself away from Cobb, Eames will be there (_as always_) and he will fix things (_somehow_).

He knows which hotel Eames is staying at and heads there after they are kicked out by the hospital when they get too rowdy, but Eames, he is told politely by the people at the hotel, isn't in his room. That's fine, he thinks, and sits to wait in the lobby, fingers tapping nervously on his knee, abruptly standing to pace to and fro, only to sit back down just as abruptly to wait some more.

It is late when he realizes that Eames isn't coming back and books a room at the same hotel, reasoning that the man was probably drowning himself in drink in some seedy bar or a casino somewhere. They need to talk, but they should probably both be sober for this, so Arthur decides to wait and catch him on the next day.

But Eames doesn't return to the hotel, not the next day, nor the one after. And after three days have passed, the woman at the counter is forced to tell him that his lease of the room is now up and Arthur finally realizes, all too late, that the bird has flown the nest.

He's at his laptop in minutes, tapping away determinedly at the keys, but it's been three _days_, and Eames could have left by air, by train, by _sea _if he felt so inclined, and none of his hacking manages to get him any information on any of Eames' aliases leaving the city in the past few days.

Arthur buries his face in his hands and tries to drown out the litany of the words and implications he'd hissed at Eames back in the dream, but the harder he tries, the better he can visualise the scene again, the louder he can hear the screamed profanities in his head (_I hate you I hate you I hate everything about you Eames_).

He cannot keep it from the others, not when Cobb brings it up in conversation every time, and finally he's forced to tell them, tell them that Eames vanished and he has no fucking clue where to. He has to endure their looks, their sympathetic pats and inquisitive looks, and finally Ariadne's blunt questions about what had happened between him and Eames to make the forger vanish so completely. He deflects, refusing outright to answer that question, and instead goes back to his laptop with a vengeance, because he's the _best _point man in the business and he'll be damned if he lets a fucking forger mess around with him like this.

But Eames covers his tracks well. The forger is no fool, he's got systems in place to cover all his activities, a precaution that comes with being the best in his field. Arthur cannot find him in any of his usual haunts. Then he starts with the unusual ones, but that's the rest of the world, and he knows this could take forever, unless the man slips up – which could mean never.

He decides, quite simply, that in that case he will simply have to look forever.

* * *

It is a very long time before Arthur can track down Eames. It is not that he cannot trace the man's progress across a map, the problem is finding the man _in time_. He is able to find out that Eames was in Ecuador, Iceland, Turkey, Egypt, Indonesia, Spain, Germany, but every time he arrives at his destination only to find out that Eames has vanished into obscurity once again, to pop up a few days later in Moscow, before disappearing to somewhere else, always a step or two ahead of him.

It's a frustrating dance, but to Arthur it has become an obsession. Very soon it starts to feel like he's chasing shadows, unable to get closer to his objective despite devoting all his energies to it. He travels to places he's never been to and yet barely notices his surroundings, intent on his sole objective.

When he finally _does _catch up to Eames, the first thing he does is punch the bastard as hard as he can.

This, Eames thinks, is rather unfair, adding injury to the insult of being found, but then again he had imagined Arthur would be able to find him sooner or later, no matter how well he hid his tracks. He had just been hoping that Arthur would get bored before that happened.

Evidently not. Then again, he supposes trying to vanish on Arthur was very much like waving a red flag in front of a raging bull – a challenge he _couldn't _resist even if he wanted to. However, the forger had sworn to himself that he was done, finished, completely over with the point man.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asks instead, stopping himself from rubbing his tender jaw – Arthur's got a mean right hook – and simply leaning back against the closest tree and permitting himself a small glare. It is, he thinks, justified, in the circumstances.

Arthur however, is not to be outdone, and Eames' glare is nothing to his own. "Do you know," Arthur asks, gritting his teeth, looking furious and heartbreakingly _perfect_, "how long it's taken me to track you down?"

Usually, Eames would smile or laugh, throw something like a _why darling, I didn't know you cared_, but things are completely different between them now. "It's called falling off the grid, Arthur. I had my reasons."

"You said you'd…you never gave me a chance to explain," Arthur snaps, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. Eames raises an eyebrow.

"Is that's what been eating you? Let me make it clear, _darling_," and Arthur cannot help but wince at the bitterness in Eames' voice. "You apologized and I accepted it. I don't need anything else, so don't waste your time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll get back to my holiday."

"Eames, wait," Arthur says, and his anger seems to have evaporated, leaving only weary dejection behind. For the forger, this is ten times worse.

Eames doesn't have such a great history with resisting addictive substances that are bad for his health – he gambles, he drinks, he smokes – but he knows enough to realize that perhaps the addiction he's developed for Arthur is worst of all. Which is why he simply _cannot _afford to allow the point man to get even a fingernail's hold in his life again.

So he turns and walks away without saying another word.

But Arthur has spent far too much time looking for him to allow him the freedom of walking away. Not without at least giving him the apology that's been burning in his gut, soaking him in guilt, shadowing his every waking hour (and several sleeping ones).

So he follows the forger doggedly. The forger gives the same response – or lack of it – to every single appeal; he ignores Arthur completely. Arthur's traveled across more than half the globe for this man and yet he can feel his guilt being overshadowed suddenly by frustration. He shoves himself into Eames' face, again and again, until something within Eames snaps because this isn't _fair_, there's only so much heartache one man can handle and he's the type of man that still can barely believe he ever seriously fell for anyone, let alone a specimen like Arthur who can give the stiff upper lipped British nobles a good run for their money.

It is Eames this time who punches Arthur, aiming to distract him for just long enough to vanish around the corner and disappear yet again. But Arthur doesn't take it lying down – he's on his feet and slamming Eames against a wall before the dust on the ground settles.

Eames manages to catch Arthur off guard long enough to fling him five feet backwards, his head slamming ungracefully against a tree, making him see stars. The point man pushes himself back onto his feet but Eames is on him before he can do more than settle into a defensive position, punching him with all the anger that's bubbled up from not being left alone to suffer his loneliness in peace.

Evaluating a situation rapidly has always been one of Arthur's most valuable skills, and it comes into play here, even as he stumbles backwards with a rapidly blossoming black eye. Arthur's a killer – his fighting style is all about eliminating projections once and for all. He's fast and strong, and he knows several ways of killing a man in seconds, but Arthur does not want to kill Eames. On the other hand, Eames is a brawler, and he's better at knuckle fighting where the objective is to stun your opponent or beat the living shit out of him. Arthur also knows that Eames is physically stronger. Given time, the likelihood is that he will either seriously injure Eames, or that Eames will manage to land a blow that knocks him out for just enough time to let him escape once again.

That is unacceptable – eyes narrowing, Arthur calculates his options quickly, and goes in for the kill.

Not literally – but with three smoothly executed maneuvers, Eames is on the ground, gasping, his arms wrapped around his chest, his leg unable to bear his weight, and Arthur takes a moment to take stock of him. He's still conscious, which means that he judged the force of his blows correctly to prevent any lasting damage – and then he grabs Eames in a lock from which the weakened man is unable to escape.

"Ten minutes," Arthur says, his grip like iron. "Ten minutes of your time, and then I'll leave you alone if that is what you wish." Eames wriggles and swears creatively at him, but Arthur doesn't budge, not until the forger finally gives in and promises him his ten minutes.

They sit on a park bench, both looking like the victims of a recent mugging. Passersby eye them curiously but leave them alone. Eames nurses a cold can of cola as he glares at Arthur balefully with cold, hard eyes. Eyes that remind the point man that Eames is not a man to be underestimated, that beneath his often joking exterior lies a man that's extremely dangerous. It sends a shiver down his spine, especially when he remembers the way the same man held his hands while he lay exhausted from withdrawal, the way he stroked his hair and talked nonsense to him just to lull him into easy slumber.

The same man who put his life painstakingly back together after he'd gotten so horribly derailed.

Arthur's had ample time to think about this moment, and he has a speech – several, in fact – prepared. To tell Eames how absolutely sorry he is, how he had not meant to say all that rubbish, how grateful he is for Eames picking him up from the gutter, how he can never repay Eames…and yet, looking at Eames now, his mind goes blank, the words die on his lips, and he is unable to articulate a single word.

Eames waits. He has promised Arthur ten minutes, and he will give him ten minutes (not least because he's not up to another fist round). He waits, his face slowly creasing into an impatient frown, but Arthur's face remains completely expressionless. His eyes, on the other hand, are intense, but Eames refuses to try to decipher them, because his heart was shattered a long time ago and he doesn't think he'll be able to handle any more of Arthur's bullshit this time around. He cannot pretend to be entirely over him if the man insists on shoving himself right back into his life like this.

"If that's all you wanted," he snaps into the heavy silence, pushing himself awkwardly off the bench, but before he can straighten fully, Arthur reaches out reflexively, his fingers grabbing Eames' shirt and dragging him back down onto the bench. The point man blinks at his own actions even as Eames snarls, and then something in Arthur's face simply _breaks_, and he leans forward and presses his forehead against Eames' chest, fingers loosening their hold but still clinging to Eames like a lifeline.

Eames is vaguely aware that Arthur is whispering an inaudible apology, but he doesn't need it anymore. It's there, in the slump of Arthur's shoulders, in the submissive curve of his neck. All that he wants to say, all he needs to say, and then more. The forger sighs, closing his eyes, but despite himself, his hand reaches up to rest on the back of Arthur's neck, forgiving and accepting, eliciting a small sound from the other man.

Perhaps, Eames thinks distantly, Arthur's not the worst addiction to have after all.


End file.
